The Bangover

by Valente, Lili

  “You know what I think will be even prettier?” I ask, slowly drawing one lace cup to the side, revealing a tight pink nipple lovelier than anything hanging in any of the world’s museums.

  “What?” Her breath rushes out as I circle her tight tip with my thumb, teasing around the edge where the satin-soft skin begins to pucker.

  “When we’re all naked,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her neck as I pinch her nipple tight enough to make her gasp.

  Gasp and claw her fingers into the ass of my jeans, pulling me closer, arching into my hand as she says, “Yes. I want to see all of you. Every single inch.”

  Before I can promise to oblige, she’s tearing at the close of my jeans, and I’m popping the clasp on her bra, and we’re rolling onto the bed where I discover an unexpected treat. There are mirrors on the ceiling, too, granting me a heart-stopping view as Kirby straddles my hips, her bare ass a perfect peach shape without a hint of a tan line.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” I say as she nibbles her way up my neck and I smooth my hands over her sweet ass like it’s a crystal ball that will answer all of my most burning questions. “I like you pale, glowing in the dark. Just for me.”

  “For you,” she promises in a husky whisper, and then she bites my ear and presses her slick center against where I ache, and I lose the ability to think about anything but how good she feels in my arms.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kirby

  I’m not a visual person.

  Yes, I like pretty things, but not in that way. I’ve never watched porn or collected naughty gifs or stashed magazines beneath my bed. If I want to get in the mood, I track down a sex scene from one of my favorite novels and skip straight to the good parts. And then all I need is closed eyes and my own hand, no elaborate toys or tricks required.

  But now, as Colin flips me over on his chest and says, “Look up,” a rush of heat jolts through me as I take in the sight of us together in bed.

  He’s right. We’re even prettier completely naked. And watching his hands roam over my body as I spread my legs and reach down, stroking the hot velvety length of him that juts out between my thighs, is the sexiest thing that’s ever happened to me.

  “It’s like I’m feeling it twice,” I murmur to Colin as he plays with my nipples, making me squirm and my breath come faster. “Once from seeing you touch me and once from feeling it. We are so, so pretty. So sexy.”

  “Except that you sort of look like you have a cock coming out of one thigh,” Colin says, laughing as I adjust my grip on him and shift my hand to make it look even more like I’m touching my own raging erection. “You’re a sick cookie.”

  “No, I’m not,” I say, teasing my thumb around the leaking tip of him, dying to fit him to where I ache and feel him inside me. “I’m just comfortable imagining myself as a hot hermaphrodite. The ancient Romans thought they were erotically irresistible. Some of their most talented sculptors devoted years of their lives to carving beautiful, curvy women with a little of this and a little of that.” On “that” I stroke him harder, making him moan and his hands tighten on my breasts until it sends a pleasant zing of pleasure-pain zipping along my nerve endings.

  “Only you,” Colin says, hands moving to grip the inside of my thighs, spreading them farther apart, destroying the illusion. “You’re the only one who could make me hot talking about your hypothetical extra penis. God, Kirby, you make me crazy. I want you so much.”

  “Then take me,” I say, guiding him to my entrance, a fresh wave of arousal zapping through me as he starts to push inside only to stop at the last second.

  “Condom,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “Let me get one from my wallet.”

  “I’m clean and on the pill,” I say, circling my hips, teasing the tip of him while my inner walls clutch and squeeze, dying for him to be inside me again. “As long as you’re clean, we’re safe. I promise. You can trust me.”

  “And you can trust me.” He holds my gaze in the reflection, his expression pained. “I’m clean. I was tested a couple of weeks ago, and I’ve never been with a woman without something in between.”

  “Never?” I ask, surprised.

  He shakes his head, the pain rippling to tense the rest of his face as I tilt my hips and an inch of him pushes inside. “Fuck, Kirby, we have to stop. If I’m getting a condom, I have to get it now. Or I’m going to—” His words end in a groan as I take him in the rest of the way.

  I cry out, and the shameless girl in the reflection’s lips fall open as she begins to move, riding the beautiful man beneath her as his hands write music on her skin, each note echoing in her bones, taking her higher.

  Higher…

  And then his fingers close around her throat—gently but firmly. He pins her to his chest as he squeezes her hip tight with his other hand and pumps deeper, harder, and she’s on her way into orbit.

  Breaking the sound barrier in three, two—

  I come, fighting to keep my eyes open so I can watch as Colin drives into me, fast and wild, the sight of him losing control while his fingers still circle my neck with perfect, insistent pressure turning me molten on the inside.

  Within seconds of coming down, I’m on my way back up again, swiftly losing my mind and any remaining sense of propriety. I claw at him with my nails, begging for what I need, and he gives it to me, flipping me over onto my back and ramming into me with enough force to scoot me across the tightly fitted sheet.

  I cling to his shoulders, watching in fascination as the thick muscles in his backside flex and release. He fucks me like he’s never going to stop, never get enough, never be as deep as he needs to be.

  The sight of it is enough to make another orgasm snatch me up in its merciless jaws, shaking me back and forth until the pleasure is so intense my head swarms with drunk bees singing a hallelujah chorus.

  I come back to my body just as Colin is reaching a fever pitch that gets me buzzing all over again.

  “Oh God, Kirby, baby,” he breathes into my ear as he brushes my bangs from my forehead with a shaking hand. “You feel so good. I’m going to come. I can’t help it, I’m going to—”

  “Come, yes. Yes,” I encourage as he stiffens against me with an animal sound that becomes a stream of worshipful cussing as he rides out his release with slower, gentler strokes and I hum and sigh.

  And giggle.

  Though, I don’t realize I’m giggling until Colin pulls back to gaze down into my face with a bemused grin. “Want to share the joke with the class, Larry?”

  I realize I’m the source of the giggling and giggle harder before I pull myself together enough to apologize. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m laughing. I just…feel so fucking good. And happy.” I beam up into his face. “And great. So great. You’re way better than a roller coaster.”

  He laughs, too, because he loves to see me happy and has way too big an ego to ever imagine I might be laughing at his sexual performance. “You, too. And you’re really pretty when you’re coming on my cock. Your body just…” He shudders, and I grin even wider.

  “Your body does that to me, too,” I say, tracing the hollow of his spine. “But I do feel a little sad, too.”

  He tilts his head. “Why’s that?”

  “I never got to suck your cock.” I push my lips into a pout, which isn’t easy with all the smiling I’m doing, but I manage. “And I’d really like to, so very much.”

  A shaky breath from Colin rewards me, along with the feel of him getting hard again inside me, and I grin.

  “You’re a bad girl,” Colin says, smiling back at me.

  “But good at it. You just wait and see.” And then I roll him onto his back, kiss my way down his tight, trembling stomach, and show him that he’s not the only one who knows a thing or two about being wicked.

  Or wonderful.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Colin

  There are moments in life that stick with a person forever, scrawled on the pages of their memory in permanent ink
.

  I have a few from childhood—my dad’s sad, stony face the last time he came to visit, when I somehow knew in my gut I was never going to see him again. The smell of fresh tar the first time Mom took me to Six Flags and we rode the kiddie roller coaster together at least a dozen times. A standing ovation in Vienna at an overseas show when I was eight, the air roaring with applause and something in my head clicking as I realized it didn’t matter where I was in the world—music was my universal language, and it was never going to let me down.

  But I confess that, since the age of seventeen or so, most of my forever memories have something to do with sex. Because let’s face it—sex is a whole lot of fucking fun. It’s the high without the hangover, the chocolate cake without the calories, a thrill ride to the top of the world that doesn’t cost a dime.

  It’s another universal language.

  Whether you speak English, French, or Korean, “Oh please, right there, that’s it, don’t stop,” is exactly the same. When a woman’s breath hitches and her muscles pull tight and the rock of her hips takes on that urgent edge, I know what to do, no words required.

  But of all the racy material glued into my mental scrapbook, I somehow know Kirby in the blue light, holding my gaze in the mirror as I slid into her from behind is always going to be my number one. It’s moved to the front of the binder, where it will stay. Forever.

  Even now, in a none-too-fresh-smelling taxi at almost midnight, with a cranky cat meowing in the seat between us—Murder was sleeping in L’s lap when we came down and wasn’t thrilled about being disturbed—all I can think about is the feel of Kirby’s skin, the bliss of her body tight and hot around me, the look in her eyes as I took her over the edge and she started to laugh.

  I never imagined a woman laughing in bed would make me so fucking happy, but I am. I’m giddy, floating, so ridiculously pleased with us that I can’t quit smiling. Every time I catch Kirby’s gaze, I smile a little harder, until my jaw starts to ache and I’m halfway to being hard again.

  My phone buzzes, and I pull it out to see a text from the other side of the car—I’ve almost started giggling at least three times. I think I’m drunk on sex.

  Casting a quick glance her way, I type back—You’re cute when you’re drunk on sex. Is it okay that I can’t stop thinking about watching you suck my cock in the mirror? Or your pussy? Or how good our pussy and cock are at being best friends?

  She makes a soft, snorting sound, and one hand flies up to cover her mouth as she types her response with one thumb. Stop! I’m going to lose it, and Murder will freak. He doesn’t like it when I get the giggles. It scares him. He’s used to my dark and broody side.

  I like your dark and broody side, I reply. But I love you like this. I love seeing you this happy and knowing I had something to do with it.

  She arches a brow my way and whispers, “Everything to do with it.”

  I shake my head. “Nah. It takes two to make a thing go right, Larry.”

  “Rob Base and D.J. E-Z Rock?” she asks, her dimples popping.

  “I only quote from the masters. Eighties rappers and Shakespeare.”

  She laughs. “If music be the food of love, play on? How many times have you used that one on some unsuspecting girl?”

  “A few,” I confess, “but for you, I think…” It comes to me, the words I want to say, the simple line I’ve always thought was the most romantic thing the Bard ever wrote.

  Maybe the most romantic thing anyone has ever written.

  But now that it’s here, on the tip of my tongue, I hesitate. Not because it isn’t true, but because it is. It’s true, and it’s Kirby, and the two things are starting to feel more and more like one and the same, and what the hell am I supposed to do with that?

  With her?

  With the growing suspicion that what I’ve been searching for has been right in front of me all along?

  Her brows lift. “Don’t tell me your famous memory is failing you.”

  “No.” I shake my head, the words wanting out too much for me to hold them back. “For you, The Tempest, Act Three, Scene One. I would not wish any companion in the world but you.”

  Her face softens, opens, giving me a glimpse of something hiding beneath the surface before she looks back down at her phone. A beat later, she types, Me, too. Thanks for being my very best friend.

  Throat tight, I whisper, “My honor and pleasure.” And it is. Even helping her wrangle her ridiculous cat as we tumble out of the cab and head for the elevators—Murder yowling like he’s being tortured by lesser demons the entire time—I wouldn’t want to be anywhere in the world but with this woman.

  I’ve got a tempest of my own swirling inside, reshaping the Colin landscape. It’s so distracting that I walk right past the new developments by the suite door without noticing them until Kirby coos, “When did you order flowers? They’re gorgeous, and coral peonies are my very favorite!”

  I turn, frowning at the simple but elegant bouquet of six plump flowers on the entry table. “I didn’t,” I confess, gaze sliding to the black case behind the door. “But it looks like someone ordered a guitar, too?”

  She shoots a confused smile my way as she lets Murder out of the bag and he slinks away to the spare bedroom with a wounded look that makes it clear what he thinks of being kept out this far past his bedtime. “I had Bridget order it. I can’t believe it got here this fast, though. It’s nothing special, just a middle-of-the-road instrument to write songs on, but it should get the job done.”

  “It’s completely special, thank you,” I say, feeling like a rat for being out-romanced this early in the game. But then, I didn’t realize Kirby and I were romancing until maybe a few minutes ago.

  We are romancing, aren’t we? Or is the guitar just a kind and generous gesture from a good friend?

  Fuck. I’m so fucking confused.

  A state of being which only gets worse when Kirby opens the card beside the flowers and reads, “How do you live with yourself? With all the lies you’ve told? You owe me an apology, and I will be collecting it, one way or another.”

  Kirby’s gaze jerks to mine. “Well, this clearly isn’t from Bridget.”

  “Clearly,” I agree, crossing back to her and taking the small card from between her fingers. But it’s a typed note, no handwriting or anything else to clue me in as to who might have sent it. Still, I can make an educated guess. “I guess Regina is more pissed at me than I thought.”

  “But these are my favorite flowers,” Kirby says, frowning at the blooms.

  “Coincidence?”

  She purses her lips. “Maybe, but they aren’t in season and they aren’t cheap. I doubt that Regina called up a florist, said give me a quickie bouquet to use as cover for a threatening note I want to send my ex, and the florist offered up six gorgeous coral peonies. They’re like eight dollars per stem out of season. I know because I asked Bridget to paint some watercolors of them for me a few years ago. She likes to paint from real life, so I ordered a dozen for her to work with. It ended up costing a small fortune.”

  “But the pictures came out great,” I say. “The ones in your bathroom, right?”

  She blinks up at me. “Yeah. I’m surprised you noticed.”

  “I notice things,” I say, silently adding especially things about you. This mental shift is too new for me to know exactly what to think, let alone how to clue Kirby in on it. Especially with all the other drama swirling in the dry Vegas air. “Well, I know one way to get to the bottom of this.” I pull out my phone. “We find Regina, and we get some answers.”

  “And why not just text you?” Kirby adds, fingers playing lightly along the base of one bloom in a way I find inexplicably erotic.

  “Maybe she didn’t want evidence that the message came from her,” I say, scrolling through my InstaChat feed until I find what I’m looking for. When I do, I grunt and my eyes narrow. “And look at this.” I tip the screen Kirby’s way, and her eyebrows shoot up.

  “Um, I’m not ex
pert,” she says, “but that doesn’t look like expectant mother behavior.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” I screenshot the image of Regina in a skin-tight gold mini skirt and an artfully ripped black tee, standing on top of a bar with her head thrown back in laughter and a martini in hand. My jaw clenches tight. “She’d better be lying about being pregnant. If she’s not…”

  Kirby rests a hand on my shoulder. “She has to be lying. She’s a little out there, but she’s not crazy or stupid. She would know better than to drink while she’s pregnant and put her baby at risk.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “Regina likes to party, and there comes a point in the night when she stops caring about the consequences. That, and way too much scotch on the rocks, is how we ended up at the Little White Chapel at four in the morning.”

  “Well, to be fair, you were part of that decision, too.” She peers up at me. “When did you know you’d made a mistake?”

  “She was saying her vows,” I admit. “All of a sudden, I sobered up and had the most intense ‘oh shit, what the hell have I done’ moment of my life. But it felt like it was too late to turn back at that point. So I said my part, went back to the hotel, and passed out, praying that I’d wake up and it would all be a dream. When I woke and it wasn’t, I called my lawyer and started the paperwork for the annulment.” I lean back against the wall beside the entry table. “And then I kept sleeping with Regina on and off for another year and a half, even though I knew I shouldn’t. Because I’m a fucking idiot.”

  “You’re not a fucking idiot. Relationships are messy. They don’t always end nice and clean, tied up with a bow, the way they do in the movies.” She crosses her arms, glaring at the bouquet. “But I think it’s past time to wrap this one up. I say we go to the club, find Regina, and get to the bottom of a few things. Specifically, whether or not she’s really pregnant, and if she sent these flowers. Hopefully, if we catch her unaware, red-handed with a baby-unfriendly drunk on, she’ll fess up without a fuss.”